


Time Marches On

by RunicRaven



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Demons, Evil Crowley (Supernatural), Gen, Hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:48:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26046037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RunicRaven/pseuds/RunicRaven
Summary: When all has settled, and the world of the Winchesters has passed, what's a demon to do with new freedom he's been given?
Kudos: 6





	Time Marches On

The room smelt of rotten wood and molded over cloth. He sat in the chair, his black dusted suit wrinkled and worn as if time pummeled it with dirt and apathy, and carefully examined the room before him. It was dark and shadowed in every corner, with only but one bulb that hung from the ceiling. It swung gently back and forth, its light hesitant to glow. His eyes seemed heavier, desperately clung to the thought that life was over. His beard pricked at his skin, scraggly and unkempt, and shadowed the hollows of his face. His brow hung low on his eyes, a black canopy drawn by hate, death, and exhaustion.

He remembered when the room was filled with trusted souls and loyal soldiers. When they would come with both respect and fear. His chair was then a throne, and not the rotted piece of wood that displayed today. He was a King. Demons would line the aisle that led to his point of power, of position. Their eyes blackened by the fires of Hell, somehow focused and driven when gazed upon their King's face. He knew the loyalists from the half-wits, their demeanor leagues different from the others. Their eagerness to do as he commanded gave him an ironic sense of faith that his rule, his reign would be one to demand ferocity and savagery, speckled with just enough honor to keep his soldiers.

But now... his throne room lay barren. The shadows took occupancy in a room that once was fueled by excited rage. The stone and brick screamed in muffled rapture as the silence catered to their long awaited peace. However, in time, their textures smoothed over and surfaces turned matte, dull of character. Their memories no longer held, only slipped away to be forgotten. What is a King to do when his pawns and knights have scattered?

He then recalled those few words spoken to him by a human he once knew, decades ago, "To be King again, maybe you have to remember how to be a soldier." He recalled the life of a soldier, his eagerness to rise masked by loyalty. The blood spilled by his hands, droves of corpses, souls, and flesh torn before him. He had remembered that delicate freedom, the passing whim of torture and bloodshed that fell from the curve of his lips. His grip on the throne tightened as his blood boiled throughout his body. His heart thudded against his chest, and his eyes flooded crimson. He surged from his throne and with a flick of his fingers sent the wall ahead of him into a splintered, dust pile upon the floor. It was time again for his reign to be known. Every country, every city, and every house will know of his crown. He is the King of Hell, and there was much work to be done; not a Winchester in sight was there to stop him this go-around. With a crooked grin, and straightening of his suit, he marched forward through the newly deconstructed entryway and retired into the shadows, only to emerge into the drab dull cone of light presented by the singular lamp that hung from the abandoned asylum.


End file.
